People say that when you're about to
die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. Images of past
birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgiving dinners; family, friends and the
old street where you learned how to ride a bike. The day you had your
first kiss, lost your virginity, the feeling of heartbreak. The warm
sun on a winter's morning and the first bite of fall on the last day
of summer. These things are what normal people think of just before
the last beat of their heart. Normal people wouldn't be lying in a
pool of blood hoping that it's not in their hair, but I've never been
what people would call “normal.”
My “name” is Ariana Guile
(pronounced “geel” for future reference) and I am about to die. I
think. Well, I should say “I hope,” because honestly, I have
quite had it with this life. I'm ready for the next one. Ready for
the adventure of starting over and moving on with a new life. Death
is the perfect out. No, I'm not suicidal. I'm simply faking my own
death.
Trust me, it wasn't easy to pull this
off, but I've been planning for three years. I've saved three years
worth of wages from my shitty job as a Wal-Mart cashier, paid for a
counterfeit passport that looks more authentic than my real one, and
have all the bleach I believe my dark hair can take without falling
out. I am ready.
The ambulance is getting close, I can
hear it as I lay on the street, the blood packet underneath my shirt
has drained completely, staining the street around me and my yellow
blouse. I know that Jake and Tom are inside the ambulance, fresh out
of paramedic school. They only know of my plan because I need their
help. Once they stop being useful, I'm sure I'll forget them and the
$1000 I'm paying them. It will be money well-spent once I'm “dead.”
The ambulance stops about 10 feet from
me, at least that's what I can sense through the crowd that has
gathered around my seemingly lifeless body. Everyone is chattering so
loudly, it's hard to keep still. The elders in the group seem to be
more concerned about my appearance than they are about my life.
“Such a lovely top. That blood will
never come out,” I hear one of them whisper to their friend.
“What a pretty young lady,” an
elderly man says to himself. “I wonder if she was tight.”
Conclusion: Old people are shallow and
gross.
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